


Leave A Light On For Me

by Noelleian



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, POV First Person, Prostitution, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:52:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noelleian/pseuds/Noelleian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After recovering from an addiction to painkillers, Quatre finds himself facing an uncertain future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there an award for the most WIP's? Haha. But seriously. Is there?

A wise man once said to me, 'Quatre, sometimes the heart will lead you astray, but it will inevitably bring you home'. He'd said this to me while I was strapped to a gurney, shaking like the dickens, and frothing at the mouth. Detox had been a bitch, the facility I was stuck in, even worse. 

This of course came from the same man who'd been the one to make the medical decisions for me while I recovered in the hospital after being run through by a sword. Apparently, I wasn't old enough, or cognizant enough to determine whether or not I needed pain medication. Even though I'd told them numerous times that I didn't want the drugs they pumped into my veins, my old "friend" insisted that I didn't know what was good for me. Considering I wasn't legally old enough to sign off on my own treatment, my wishes were overridden and I was given the morphine drip against my will. 

It didn't matter that he had willingly taken orders from me on the battlefield. Didn't matter that I'd proven myself time and again. Suddenly, I was thrust back into the role I'd been in before I left my home at the age of thirteen. Incapable of knowing what I needed, useless without an entourage of governesses and caregivers to wipe my ass for me. 

Oh, that Quatre Winner. He's a sweet kid. Cute as a button, but such a tragic disappointment to his family, to the Winner name. My father finally got his son and he turned out to be nothing but a decoration. Of course, my abilities as a Gundam pilot and commander could never be used as credentials. Oh, no. The pacifist Winner family would never publicly admit to the shame that the beloved heir was a blood-thirsty war monger. 

Not that I was. But it didn't matter. In their eyes, I was already damned the moment I took up arms. Sold my soul to the Devil. And I did. The price in the end was just too great. And I'd done it all to protect the people who hated me. I was starting to believe I was just as stupid as everyone thought I was. 

Sure, we achieved peace and I suppose that should have been enough. Certainly more important than my selfish desires for more. Of course, being the sentimental fool that I am, I did the absolute dumbest thing I could have done in the midst of war.

I fell in love.

And when I say "fell" I mean I did. Hard. Like off a cliff and into a pile of mush hard. With a boy who was too far removed from his own emotions to reciprocate. I suppose I could have laughed it off as a crush, at least at first. But, I know I'd be lying. I gave him my heart. He took it and stuck it through a paper shredder, poured gasoline on it and lit a match before giving it back to me. Like I knew what to do with it at that point. 

Maybe it wouldn't have been so difficult if we hadn't gotten so close, if he hadn't led me to believe he actually felt something for me. The first time I told him I loved him, I'd been blasted out of my mind on morphine, convinced I was dying and was desperate with the need to tell him what I felt in my heart before I took my last breath. I can't remember if he responded. And he didn't mention it once. So, I simply let it slide, figuring he didn't want to embarrass me with what he thought were delirious ramblings.

The second time was just after the Eve Wars. Unbeknownst to my comrades, I was popping Percocets like they were Pez candy just to stop the shake in my hands and to keep from going grand mal. I'd been "weaned" from morphine to Demeral in the hospital long enough to convince my system to latch onto it as a necessity. Then, they let me go with a pat on the back a prescription for Vicodin. 

I didn't fill it right away, ecstatic that I was allowed my autonomy. I never wanted to be pumped full of narcotics to begin with. The withdrawal began in less than forty eight hours and became so unbearable, I couldn't hold food down. My temperature spiked and I was rushed back to the infirmary by Rashid who was convinced that I had an infection. I certainly didn't know what the problem was. The doctors should have. Instead of recognizing the symptoms of detox, they simply gave me antibiotics and sent me home. 

That night, I was so sick I couldn't stand it anymore. I begged Rashid to fill the prescription for me. Oh, it was incredible how much better I felt once the Vicodin was running through my veins. The fever went away, I could hold down food though I didn't have much appetite, and I suddenly felt functional again. Normal. 

That should have been a massive red flag, but I was fifteen and had no idea what drug addiction did to a person. Just before the Eve Wars, I finally realized I had a serious problem, but I was too far gone in my addiction to be able to stop. I couldn't focus, didn't have my faculties without the pills. 

I told Trowa again that I loved him. There was only a minute change in his expression. He nodded, then said he had to go back to the circus. And that was that. 

That should have been the end of it. The 'Quatre, pull up your big boy britches and get on with your life' moment. But, I was devastated. More so because by that point I was sure he felt the same. The one time he'd cupped my face and brushed his lips against mine in a not-quite-kiss should have been the smoking gun I needed to know that he felt something more than friendship, or camaraderie for me. That he could just wave his hand at the whole thing was beyond my comprehension. 

I tried to quit then. That very night, but by three in the morning, I was seizing. After waking up in a mess of my own sick, I swallowed down three doses and convulsed on the floor until the sweet medicine saturated my system with its opiate healing. I cleaned myself up as best I could, still weak from the episode, kneeling in the shower weeping like a child, feeling lost and confused.

I knew I couldn't go to my family for help. The only thing worse than a war-monger was a drug addicted queer. I went to the only person I could think of. 

"Rashid, I need your help."

The next day, I was in full detox mode in a questionable methadone clinic in New Orleans. And by questionable, I mean some of the staff was under the impression that the patients were there for reasons other than recovery. I found this out the hard way during one of my lucid periods when I came to and discovered I was naked from the waist down and my legs were slung over the shoulders of some sleaze ball who was grunting and groaning above me. I was sixteen and a virgin. If the trauma of being hooked on painkillers wasn't bad enough, the rapes I endured were enough to ensure I wouldn't be able to recover. The assaults occurred on a nightly basis and I was helpless to stop them. Strapped down to prevent injury when I seized, and too weak and sick to do anything but whimper from the pain and humiliation. 

When I emerged from the clinic four weeks later, I was clean, but not better. Rashid had done what he could, but considering what I was now, he decided he'd done his good deed by dropping me off at the rehab center with a few sugary words as his parting gift. He hadn't been back since and I found out he'd gone back to Jordan when I tried to call him from a payphone. The Maguanacs were family only so far until the point where I'd broken two cardinal rules of Islam. I was an addict and a homosexual. Same dilema when it came to my biological family.

There was no followup from the clinic. No aftercare. Just, 'Have a nice day and out with you.' I told them that I'd been raped. That other patients were also likely being raped. Their response was, 'It's a free clinic. It's got to cost you something'. Yeah. They actually said that. 

I didn't know where to go or who to turn to. I couldn't go to Trowa. I had no idea where Heero, or Wufei were. Duo probably would have helped me, but I was honestly too embarrassed to face him. And I was in no shape to be anything but a burden anyway. 

I realized for the first time in my life, I was homeless. Worse than that, I was alone. Post-war employment was scarce. Especially for a sixteen year old with no documents, ID, or address. Only a fake name. I lasted five days before I was so hungry I let some guy bend me over the backseat of his Mercedes. And I didn't fail to notice the gold band on his ring finger. He tossed me a few bills for my troubles and sent me on my way.

I tried not to think about the fact that I'd just peddled my body for a few measly dollars. I savored the meal it bought me, the first real meal I'd had in weeks. And I'd earned every penny of it.

It was the first time I'd sold my body, but it wasn't the first time I'd sold my soul. And it would be far from the last. It was the only thing I had left to offer. 


	2. Chapter 2

I was never what any reasonable parent would consider a "good" child. I nearly got my face slapped off by my father when I was five because I'd told him to 'suck it' when I wasn't allowed to have one of the delicious fresh-baked cookies our chefs had baked for after supper dessert. I'd heard the phrase somewhere on a television program I can't even be bothered to remember now. I was a disobedient child. Mouthy, rebellious, and angry. 

I hated what I stood for. It wasn't enough that I was lied to for the first half of my life, but I had to be told that I was created only for my father's convenience. His chauvinist desire to have a male heir despite having twenty nine capable females before I ever entered the picture. I still don't know what his motivation was behind telling me what he did. I can understand not wanting me to feel guilty for the death of my mother, but he was a smart man. He could have concocted a better story than the one he threw me. Perhaps he didn't want me to feel different than my sisters who were all created artificially. Or like I was better than them. I don't really know. First I had to come to terms with the tales he'd weaved about my origins. Then I had to come to terms with being deceived and finding out my mother died because she gave me life.

The second time I was struck, it was by Rashid after I'd lamented my existence as worthless. I was told to 'take pride in myself'. This coming from the man who attacked our transport and took us hostage. Then, he punched me. I was thirteen. He was thirty and five times my size. I didn't think much of it at the time. Once I got past the shock of getting knocked on my ass, I ended up taking a bullet for him and then leading his troop, his Maguanacs to battle in his mobile suit since he was too injured to do so. Looking back, it's hard to see someone who would do that to a child as any kind of respectable man. 

Granted, he _was_ one of the better ones, especially in comparison to the kind of scum I had to deal with later on. Where he came from, raising your hand to a disrespectful child was a suitable punishment, just as much as losing your hand for theft, or death for being anything but heterosexual. I managed to keep that little tidbit secret until I fell head over heels with another boy and was unable to pretend I wasn't.

Becoming an addict isn't something anyone can predict. That is, no one sets out to be one. People like to paint us with their own interpretation of what being an addict is. Weak, sick, evil, low-life. The reality is it can happen to anyone at any time. I never thought it would have such an impact on my life until it did. An injury and having no choice about what drugs I was given opened up a can of worms that turned my life in a direction I'd never imagined. 

I never really had time to recover from the abandonment of the people I trusted, or of what I had to deal with while helplessly strapped to a bed before I was thrust out into the world, alone, to fend for myself with nothing but the clothes on my back. I learned rather quickly that my intelligence, my skills, meant absolutely dick and the only thing I had going for me was my face and what was between my legs. Men liked me. And it wasn't for who I was. It was more how I looked laying on my back and they went at me like starving animals. 

I've lived enough now, experienced enough that I can honestly say there was no shame in what I did. It kept me alive, even if that life wasn't ideal. Oh, let's face it. It was shit. It was a horrible way to live and once upon a time, I might have said I'd rather die than subject myself to that. But, when you're actually living it, you realize how deep that instinctual desire, that _need_ to stay alive is. Those times when I had my head in a John's lap, or when I was bent over the foot of a bed in some roach-infested motel, I understood what it meant to crave life. _Really_ crave it. So much that you would do _anything_ to sustain it.

Was I jaded? I never used to think so. But I realize now that I've been jaded my whole life. First, I was jaded about where I came from, what my purpose was. I changed after that fist to the cheek from Rashid. I developed an appreciation for life and the beauty of it. I used to think Earth was a boring planet, but after that incident, after I fought my first battle and actually stepped foot onto the rich soil, I was in love. It was so different, so...unpredictable. Wild, in comparison to the carefully controlled ways of the colonies. 

I had such faith in humanity. That they would always do the right thing when given the chance. Even after two wars, that faith didn't waiver. It wasn't until I was laid out on top of a filthy bedspread with my legs open, choking as a pair of meaty hands squeezed my neck, that my view of the world began to taint. 

I was lucky enough to have met a group of boys who were in the same predicament that I was. They took me under their wings, so to speak. Showed me the ropes, gave me safety tips, told me which regulars were on the up and up and which ones to stay away from. We squatted in one of the many vacant homes within the city. There was no electricity, or running water. It was primitive, but it was shelter and relative safety. We looked out for each other and I cared for them the way I'd cared for my comrades, my friends who'd faced the death and atrocity of a war they didn't start with courageous hearts.

I missed them terribly. My copilots, I mean. I would think about them often, whether it was when I was soliciting a John, or getting fucked in a motel room, or nursing one of my fellow hookers back to health after a mean run-in with an overzealous customer. They were never far from my thoughts. They comforted me during those times I wanted to give up. They had all survived unimaginable horrors in their lives and came out the other side stronger and better than ever. I was proud of them and I hoped, wherever they were, that they were finally at peace. Happy. 

I hoped Trowa was doing well. He'd become quite the popular attraction at the circus along with his "sister" Cathy. I wondered if there wasn't more going on between them, though I was pretty sure their relationship was platonic. I couldn't help but hope that was the case, even though it was none of my business. Trowa was what I dreamed about when I went to sleep at night. Curling up on the beat up mattress I'd dragged home from someone's trash pile, Trowa was the one I saved for those precious moments before I drifted off. Fantasies about love that went right, of coming together after the war and making a life for ourselves. Even though I knew it wasn't meant to be, it was a tiny comfort after a long day of rough sex.

And I craved. I craved the call of the monkey on my back. Something to make the days bearable. Something to help me forget what I was going through. My body had already had a taste of it and it wanted more. I resisted despite ample opportunities, remembering what I'd gone through to get free of the clutches of addiction. Memories of sickness and misery, of seizures, restraints, and sexual assaults were what kept me from going back. In that I could honestly say I'd rather die than go through that again. I'd already lived it and I refused to go back.

So, I worked my corner with an uncluttered mind. I was not ashamed. I survived and I did rather well. I was a popular whore with scores of regulars, many of my one-timers coming back for more. What can I say? I made them feel good. Made them forget about their troubles. In a way, I was a drug to the men I slept with. I had a few that came back every few days, insatiable in their desire and I indulged them. It put food in my belly and clothes on my back. I had strict safe-sex policies and got myself checked regularly at the clinic to be sure I was clean. 

I had no pimp. I refused to even entertain the idea, even when a few of them tried to force it on me. A dislocated shoulder, broken femur, and having to eat through a straw for six months was enough to convince them to leave me be. It was also enough to convince them to leave the boys I lived with alone. I may have been a whore, but I was nobody's bitch.

I used my money to buy only the absolute necessities to survive and I saved the rest, tucking it beneath a floorboard in a remote corner of the house. The boys I lived with respected each other's space, their privacy, and their belongings. There were rules that we had to follow and one of them was keeping your hands off another person's money. Anyone caught stealing was kicked out as I found out when I'd discovered one morning that the money I'd placed inside my mattress was gone. The culprit was almost immediately identified and told to leave. I felt kind of bad, but rules were rules and there was no place for that. 

I got particularly close to one of the boys, so much that he became my best friend. We developed a bond after I had to take care of him when one of his customers was too rough with him. I tell you, you just can't clean and stitch someone's anus without it irrevocably changing your relationship. First aid and treating injuries is an intricate part of prostitution. He trusted me and I him, with our lives. It was as close as I'd been to anyone besides my war comrades. 

His name was Colin and he was a year and a half older than me. He'd been on the streets since he was twelve, escaping an abusive father. I confided in him my own story and even told him my real name. I'm sure he didn't believe me at first, but after we'd talked more, I think he realized that I actually was who I said I was. He couldn't believe someone of my status could wind up in this position. But, that's just the way of things. Anything can happen. 

After a year, I'd saved up enough money for a down payment on an apartment and Colin and I agreed to be roomies and split the cost of living fifty fifty. Within a week, we were in our "new" home, sans furniture, but it had running water and electricity. No more ice cold baths with buckets brought in from outside. We had a fridge and a working stove and even a microwave. It was probably one of the most exciting and hopeful days of my life. 

Things were finally looking up. Now that I had an address, I'd set a goal to regain documentation and a registered identification number. I was looking forward to gainful employment. It wouldn't be easy. Gundam pilot, junkie, and prostitute weren't exactly good resumé material. Still, I was one step closer. That gave me hope that I could turn my life around and make something of myself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions daddy kink, the use of sex toys, rimming, rough sex, and drug overdose.

As with anything, some things are better than others. Some _people_ are better than others. The same principle applied when it came to my customers. Some weren't so bad. Some I wish I'd never encountered. I had some that were unerringly romantic. They brought me flowers, wined and dined me, and took me to bed as though I was a lover instead of a transaction. Others, well. Let's just say I barely made it through the experience. 

There was one John, we'll call him 'Hank' for the sake of brevity. He liked to pretend he was my daddy and I was his naughty son. His prefered night usually entailed spanking me and then fucking me with a toy while he masturbated. I never really was able to get comfortable with him, though I did my best. I wasn't a squeamish person, but the concept of his fantasies left me uneasy. And he knew it. He told me I had daddy issues. Shocker. Of course, it couldn't have been that his kink was a tad on the creepy side. But he paid me well so I played along. 

My favorite, if it's possible to have a favorite in a situation such as mine, was a man named Bri. He actually did treat me like a lover. I believe in his mind, I was. He was married, as many of them were. I quickly found out a lot of my customers were closet cases living the life of a heterosexual family man. He loved to tell me all about his life, his work, his family, but never his wife. He brought me roses, took me out to the finest restaurants, bought me clothes, even underwear. He would kiss and touch and caress me long before we ever got down to the actual sex. He loved seeing me enjoying myself, loved pleasuring me.

And he did pleasure me. It was a little tough to come to grips with the fact that I enjoyed our time together. Enjoyed the sex. He was gentle and attentive. He touched and held me like I was the most precious thing in the world. I never thought I'd feel that kind of devotion and I'd wept in Colin's arms that first night, feeling so terrible about the fact that I'd liked what he did to me, wondering if I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. 

"It's okay if it felt good, Quat. It's perfectly normal," he said as he swept my hair off my forehead and dried my tears. "That's happened to me, too."

"It has?"

"Of course! Not all Johns are bad. Some just want a little love and affection. Some just want to _give_ love and affection."

"So, what do I do?"

"My advise is just lay back and enjoy it. There's nothing wrong with liking sex, even if it's paid for."

Colin had helped me a lot with that conversation. I'd always viewed it as a business transaction. I did my job and I got paid. There was no actual pleasure though sometimes it did feel good when it was done right. I was devastated when I actually orgasmed from the sex I'd had with Bri. I thought there was something wrong with me. I hadn't had an experience where I'd been able to enjoy it so when it actually happened, I didn't know what to do. 

I decided to take Colin's advice. When it felt good, I let it show, and the responses I got were even more poignant. They actually worked harder to get those reactions from me. I was even paid extra when I went the extra mile. 

I saw Bri once, or twice a week and I took full advantage of his generosity. He loved foreplay and never missed a chance to lay me out on my stomach and bury his face in my ass. The first time he did it, I was too frozen in shock to actually feel any pleasure from it, but as time went on, it became a staple in our relationship and I absolutely loved it. He always made me climax once when he did that, then he would lay his body over mine and fuck me through another one. I was often covered in love bites from head to toe by the time we were finished. After, he would hold me, trail his fingers along my side and tell me how much he wanted to divorce his wife and take me as his full-time lover. He talked about how he would whisk me away to the most beautiful places in the world, Paris, Venice, Greece.

Oh, but I couldn't help it. I never said it, but sometimes I'd wished he would. I didn't love him, my heart still belonged to Trowa. But I could imagine being his lover. It would have been so much better than where I was. 

Deep down I knew I could never do it. I knew I'd be taking advantage of him and I couldn't do that. It still curdled within my belly to think how many of these men had wives who probably didn't know they were sneaking off on their business trips to fuck young men. But, if I had turned them down on principle, I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't have a home. It wasn't that hard when I didn't have to see the effect on their lives as a family. It wasn't my problem. I was simply conducting business. At least, that was what I told myself. 

I also couldn't do it because there was no way I could be in a romantic relationship with anyone who wasn't Trowa. What I did was survival. I didn't love these men, they didn't love me, even though some told me they did. Even after whoring myself out to dozens of men, a romantic relationship felt like infidelity. It's crazy, I know. We weren't together. Never really had been, but it felt like cheating nonetheless. I realized later that it wasn't Trowa I would be cheating. It was my own heart. It knew what it wanted and it wouldn't settle for anything less. Not even if what it wanted was impossible. 

The closest I ever came to a relationship where money didn't change hands, was with Colin. I let him make love to me quite a few times. The first time was our first night in the apartment. We ordered greasy takeout and ate sitting on the floor with our backs up against the wall, watching the people walk by our window and making up stupid stories about them. He took me by surprise by suddenly kissing me and the next thing I knew, I was naked and getting fucked into the carpet. He apologized afterwords and I laid my head on his chest and told him to quit being stupid. It had been comforting, I think for both of us. Having sex for no other reason than because we wanted to. My first sexual experiences had been through force. I was an unwilling participant, sick and restrained. After that, it had been to survive. To be able to just have sex because we were young and horny was freeing. Liberating. I felt almost cleansed of the filth I'd been subjected to for so long. The layers of invisible grime on my skin, my _soul_ , sloughed off like old paint.

It felt good, but it wasn't how I'd always imagined it would feel with someone you love. Not that Colin and I didn't love each other. We did. Just not in _that_ way. I suppose we could have made it work, but I seriously doubted it. He wasn't Trowa. He wasn't and my stupid, foolish heart just would not let him go. I hated it. I was so angry with myself that I was still holding on to something that would never happen. 

Colin knew, too. He stroked my hair and spoke to me with gentle, soothing tones. Reassuring me that it didn't have to mean more than it did. 

"I know your heart belongs to someone else."

I looked up at him, surprised at his perceptiveness. "How did you know?"

He smiled, one finger tracing the arch of my eyebrow. "You may not realize this, Quatre Raberba Winner, but your eyes are very expressive. They hold nothing back."

I groaned and dropped my head, my chin bouncing off his breastbone. "Damn. And I thought I was getting better at hiding that."

I expected him to laugh, but he shook his head. "No. Don't do that. I think it's beautiful."

"You do?"

"It's rare nowadays to see such genuine feelings in a person. Everyone is so fake. Trying to be someone they're not. When I look into your eyes, I see truth, life, innocence."

I did laugh then. "I'm far from innocent."

"No, I don't think so. It's not what you've done. It's who you are."

"When did you become so idyllic?"

He smirked at me and tapped my nose. "I'm full of surprises."

The second time was a few weeks later. He'd come home in tears after discovering one of the boys we'd housed with was found dead in an alley. Drug overdose. The news hit us both hard. Colin because he'd known him. Me because it was something that had once been a real possibility for me. It _could_ have been me. He cried in my arms, his face pressed against my stomach. I stroked his hair and tried to soothe him as best I could. 

He looked up at me with sorrowful eyes, wet with tears, and my heart broke for him. "Let me make love to you. Please."

I let him. Pressing him down onto his back, I climbed on top of him and took him inside me, watching as his back arched with pleasure, his fingers digging into my hips. Afterwords, he curled up around me and whispered, "I'm glad that didn't happen to you." 

I touched his face, softly, tucking a brown lock of hair behind his ear. "So am I."

The third time, I'd just come back from a date with Bri. He'd been his usual amorous self and I came home feeling sexy and languid from the incredible lovemaking, and a few hundred dollars richer. Colin greeted me at the door and pushed me over the back of the couch, yanking my pants down and fucking me with minimal preparation, not that I needed any. He was rougher than usual, but I was already worked up from my night with Bri and welcomed it, pushing my hips back to meet his vigorous thrusts. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me upright, his heaving chest vibrating against my back as he hissed in my ear. "Don't go back to him. Don't go back to any of them."

The possessiveness in his voice triggered my climax, so excruciatingly aroused by his dominance. I reached back and wrapped my arm around his neck as he bit my shoulder, begging through his mouthful of skin. "Please. Don't do it anymore. I can't stand it."

Of course, even if I had decided to begin an actual monogamous relationship with Colin, I was not about to let him take the full burden of responsibility, even though he was willing.

"I can make the money. I can still whore myself. You don't have to do it anymore. I don't want you to."

"Colin, you know I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Why not? Because I'm not a defenseless little flower for starters. You think I want to do this? You think I want you to have to do this? Why should you take on all the burden?"

"Because I can't stand the fact that other men are touching you."

"Damn it, Colin! I was afraid of this. I should have known as soon as we started sleeping together that this would happen." I grabbed my clothes and went to the bedroom. There was only one and we shared it. "You can't do this to me. You promised me you wouldn't get attached. You know damn well I am not going to quit and leave you holding the bag. I'm insulted that you even considered asking me."

He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms. "I don't want to lose you."

I sighed and relented. A little. "You're not going to. But even if you want this relationship to be something more, you can't ask me to do that. Would you do it if I asked you?"

"No, but -"

"And no, it's not different."

He gave me a pleading look, almost pouting. It was so cute, I nearly laughed. "If you care about me, you won't ask me that again. I won't do it. I won't walk away and leave you with the burden."

I knew he wasn't happy about it. The sex we had after that was always rougher, a searing possession in the stiff coil of his muscles as he held me, in the fire behind his brown eyes, in the burn left on my skin from his biting kisses. With each encounter we had, it was as if he was trying to erase the touches of my customers. Peeling their taint from my body with each nip of his teeth, each bruising grip on my flesh, every thrust of his hips.

I wished I could have fallen in love with someone like Colin. Built a life together. Maybe we could have gone to college, gotten good jobs. Bought a house and a dog. Went on vacations together wearing tacky Hawaiian shirts like typical tourists. Worried about mortgages and car payments. Planned our retirement funds. It may have just been the one thing that could have saved his life. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

After several months, I was beginning to reach a point where I thought Colin and I really could have something special. It wasn't what I felt for Trowa, but it came close. We had a lot in common and we enjoyed each other's company. The amazing sex was a definite bonus. We understood each other and I think that's important in any relationship. Considering I'd begun fantasizing about a life with him, I could be fairly certain that my feelings for him were developing into something resembling love. 

He made the difficult days worth it in the end. He would run me a bath, cook supper, give me massages. Of course, I did my share as well. I discovered I was pretty good at making Italian food. I fell in love with their dishes while frequenting the many diners and cafés and restaurants in the French Quarter. I'd never experienced such a diverse and incredible selection of cuisine. Say what you will about New Orleans, but wow! It's such an amazing epicenter of different cultures. I fell in love with everything French. It gave me a feeling of connection to my mother whom I never got to know. I learned how to deep fry crawfish and hushpuppies, something Colin loved. Growing up, we were only allowed Middle Eastern dishes so I'd never had the chance to experience the vast array of cuisine from different parts of the world.

Not that I didn't love the food of my people. Bri sometimes let me decide which restaurant to go to and I, craving the taste of home, would sometimes choose a place that served Middle Eastern cuisine. I quickly learned which places had the most authentic tastes and Bri loved watching me take pleasure in the nostalgia that it brought. 

It was a hot summer Friday in August and I stopped off at the market after work to pick up the ingredients I needed to make Colin Chicken Parmesan, one of his favorite dishes. I was planning on surprising him with dinner, candles, flowers, a bubble bath, a massage, the whole shebang. His last customer was a couple of hours after I got off work so I hoped I'd have enough time to get everything prepared. I was ready. Ready to take the plunge and tell him I wanted to be his partner, his lover. 

I'd finally gotten a job, a _real_ job waiting tables in a French café and I just loved it. It took a lot of hard work to get it and a lot of picking myself up after numerous rejections. My tenacity paid off and I said goodbye to my last customer just over a month before. I was still trying to convince Colin he could do it, too, but his responses were always the same.

"This is the only work I've ever really done," he would say. "Who's going to hire me?"

"Well, who do you think would hire me? My resumé is even worse than yours and I got hired."

"Yeah, but you're Quatre Winner."

"They don't know that."

"Still..."

He was stubborn as a mule, but I thought I was starting to get through to him. He actually filled out a few applications and scheduled a couple of interviews in between meeting with his customers. I constantly encouraged him to keep trying even if he kept getting turned down for a while. I was sure it would happen. It happened for me. 

I got home and set my keys down on the little table by the door. He still wasn't home yet so I put the groceries away and ran to the bathroom to shower. I smelled like sweat and cafe food and that wasn't what I was going for on our first real romantic night.

It was hot, much like the desert, but with an insufferable moisture in the air that the desert didn't have. You would sweat, but the air was so damp, the sweat never dried. We didn't have air conditioning so I took a cold, refreshing shower to bring my body temperature down. Finally feeling somewhat cooled, I slipped on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and went about cooking dinner and setting the table. I was so excited. I couldn't wait to find out what his reaction would be. He'd been so happy when I finally saw my last customer and he was all over me for three days straight. Despite sleeping together on the regular, we still weren't "official". I was hoping to change that.

I had everything set up perfectly from the tall, tapered ivory candles to the vase of red roses and daisies in the center of the table. We didn't own anything expensive. Most of our furniture and housewares came from thrift and discount stores. Colin just said that gave our stuff character. I liked our eclectic style and we enjoyed shopping for new finds to furnish the apartment with. 

I wasn't old enough to buy wine, but I'd grabbed a bottle of sparkling grape juice. It would have to do and I poured it into our little green tumbler glasses as the finishing touch. After putting on some soft music from our little radio in the kitchen, I sat down to wait for him.

An hour went by and he still hadn't come home. After two, I figured he must have ended up with a longer session than he'd planned and I hoped he was getting paid extra. 

After three hours, I was starting to get a little worried, but I invented some excuses for reasons he might be delayed to make myself feel better. We didn't have cell phones so I couldn't call him and I didn't know where he was. Four hours went by and my measly attempts to keep the food warm without drying it out were in vain. The sparkling juice was already going flat, but my stomach was full of anxious bubbles. I began to entertain the idea that maybe he just decided not to come back. That maybe he'd found something better. I couldn't think of the alternative. It was too terrible. 

After five hours, I fell asleep with my head on the table and woke up in the wee hours of the morning to see that nothing had changed. Only the candles had burned down to stubs and went out. I checked the bedroom, hoping he was sleeping in there, but the bed was still made from the previous morning. I was overcome with a sense of fear and dread, now thinking the worst. We didn't have a TV, but I checked the news stations on the radio, waiting for any story that might indicate something had happened. 

And it had. I knew it the moment I heard it that it was him. Male prostitute, around the age of nineteen, found bludgeoned to death in a local motel room. His body was discovered by the night manager after another guest complained of loud noises. I dropped to the floor of the kitchen and pulled my knees up to my chest, too shocked to do anything else. It took me over an hour to realize that they'd said the police needed someone to identify the body. 

I owed him that much. He deserved to die with his name, his identity, and not as a John Doe. I took the bus to the morgue, a tiny sliver of hope still lit within me that it wasn't him. That he was just held up somewhere. I even hoped he'd decided to run out on me. It would hurt, but it would have been better than this. 

My empty stomach wasn't even able to contain itself when they pulled the sheet back. I doubled over and vomited bile and stomach acid into the waste basket they held out for me as his face, his once beautiful face was revealed. He was nearly unrecognizable, his face so swollen and bruised, the delicate bones shattered from the force of the strikes. But it was him. I recognized that brown hair and the little beauty mark on the side of his neck. I nodded to the medical examiner, confirming who it was, telling them his name through my tears. I had to go to the station after that to answer questions about him, about me, about anything that might lead them to the person who did it. I told them everything I could think of that would help and even things I wasn't sure were relevant, hoping against hope that the killer would be found. 

I went home hours later, exhausted, and so fed up with life. That I had been given the chance, after everything I'd been though, to have it taken away. That _he'd_ been given the chance to start over only to have his life stolen by a senseless act of violence. I was so fucking angry and so done with humanity. My faith, that was already hanging on by a thread, gone. It unraveled and snapped, plunging me into a darkness I hadn't felt since I was in that rehab facility.

The desire to use, something I hadn't felt for sometime, came back with a vengeance. The call tempting me with promises that it could make my pain, my grief, my impotent rage go away. I wanted blood. I wanted it so bad I saw red everywhere I looked. I watched the people on the street go about their lives like everything was peachy and I wanted to hit them over and over, the way Colin had been hit. Just to make them stop smiling. To make them see how painful life really was. I wanted everyone to hurt as bad as I did.

I was so terrified that I would cave with the need to use, my feet almost taking me to the door against my will. The impulse was so strong, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to control it. All I wanted was the pain to stop and not even the threat of what I'd gone through before seemed to be enough. 

I did the only thing I could think of. I packed up what I needed, told my landlord that I was moving out and that he was welcome to everything I left behind, including the furniture, and headed for the bus stop that would take me to the shuttleport. I hopped on the next flight to L2 and looked up my old friend and war comrade. I couldn't help but think I should have just done that from the beginning. Then none of this would have happened. My pride would not allow it before, but now I had no pride left. I had nothing left. My second chance at love was taken from me just like my first chance and I was all out of love to give. I couldn't even pretend anymore. I felt dull, lifeless, and so empty and lost.

It took a lot of asking around. Duo wasn't easy to find and I had to walk several miles to get to him. I waded through the thick meadow of metal parts as I made my way up to the building he was apparently using as a scrapping business. I was so tired, my feet aching from the long walk from the port to Duo's place. I recognized Howard and gave him a small wave as I walked up the busted brick path. I wasn't sure if he recognized me at first, but then his head turned and he shouted at the vicinity behind the building. "Hey! You got company." Howard dropped the rag he'd been using to clean his hands and stepped towards me. "You okay, kiddo?"

I couldn't speak, could only offer a minute shake of my head. The tears I'd been holding back threatening to drown me. Would I be welcome? Or shoved back out into the street once Duo knew all the things I'd done. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and I turned, dizzy with emotions I couldn't name as Duo came into view. He stopped short, eyes wide in shock. He looked good. Healthy. Filling out his jeans and t-shirt in a way that indicated he'd been doing a lot of heavy lifting. That long braid was still hanging down his back. I said nothing, only stared, blinking rapidly, as his mouth worked to form words.

"Quat? Quat is that you? Oh, God!" He rushed forward and my legs threatened to give out, wobbling unsteadily. "Where the hell have you been? I've been looking everywhere for you! Are - are you okay?"

The concern in his eyes and in his voice did me in and I collapsed onto the path, the jagged edges of the bricks digging into my skin. I dropped my head in my hands, feeling so ashamed. He'd been worried. _Someone_ was worried. And was looking for me. Someone still _cared_. It was something I hadn't anticipated. 

Strong arms closed around me and I buried my face in my friend's chest, inhaling the scents of sweat and motor oil, mixed with a musky cologne. It smelled like Duo and my memories sung at the familiarity. Just hearing his voice again was such a relief. I couldn't talk, I just cried. Cried for the first time in almost two years. Two years of agony and pain and loneliness. I let it all out and Duo held me through it. I couldn't believe how much I'd missed him. 

Through the chaos in my head, I could hear Howard asking him questions that I knew he couldn't answer. _What happened to him? Is he alright?_ I felt Duo's face press against my head as he whispered the same questions to me. 

"The hell happened to you, Quat? What the fuck happened to you?"

"Hell," I croaked. "It was Hell. That's where I've been." I wiped my face on my sleeve, coughing around a dry throat. "Can I have some water?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. C'mon, let's get you inside." 

He helped me up, mumbling, "God, Quat! You're so thin. Haven't you been eating?" I had actually and I told him as much. He held on to me as we walked into the building, like he was afraid I would fall again. I probably would have. Howard followed us in and went to fetch me a glass of water. I thanked him and guzzled it down, parched like I hadn't been since I'd trekked through the desert during the war. It was cool and delicious and I pressed the glass, coated with cool condensation against my sweaty forehead. Howard was nice enough to give us some time alone and I appreciated that. He was a good guy. I didn't know him that well, but he'd been a good friend to Duo and anyone who was a friend of Duo's was a friend of mine. Duo watched me with concerned eyes and I suddenly felt like the shittiest friend in the world.

"I'm so sorry for dropping in on you like this, Duo."

"Don't you dare apologize. I've been worried sick about you. You disappeared shortly after the Eve Wars. Not even Heero could find you. Trowa's been in a right state, calling me constantly. "Have you heard anything about Quat?" he keeps asking me. I thought -"

I ignored the information that Trowa had been allegedly beside himself with worry. I wasn't in any state of mind to psychoanalyze that considering he'd cut all ties from me before I was admitted to that clinic. "You thought I was dead."

He looked guilty and I nearly laughed. If the situation hadn't been so serious, I would have. "I _was_ dead."

He took my hand and gazed into my eyes. "Tell me what happened. Tell me everything."

"Oh, where do I start? I suppose I should start by telling you I'm a recovering addict." I forced out a humorless laugh to buffer the news, not sure how he would take it.

He was shocked, as I expected. I just prayed he wouldn't boot me out the door with a "Nice knowin' ya". I stared down at the floor as I revealed my deepest, darkest secrets, unable to look him in the eye.

"When I got stabbed, they - well, they forced those painkillers on me. I was on them long enough to end up dependent on them. I was hooked all through the Eve Wars."

"Quat! Why didn't you say something?"

"How could I? I'd just realized I had a problem and it was the only way I could function without getting so sick. I was too ashamed. I didn't know how to say it. It wasn't until after the wars that I finally went to Rashid. He dropped me off at a rehab center in New Orleans and went back to Jordan."

"What? He just left?"

"Yeah. He was the one who made the doctors give me the pain meds and then he just dropped me off at the clinic and took off without a word."

"What about your family?"

"Are you kidding? They cut me off when I was fifteen. First because I joined the war. My sexual orientation and my addiction, they'd never accept that. That's even worse than going to war."

"Oh, Quat -"

"That facility - the clinic. They raped their patients, Duo. They raped me." I listened to Duo's hitch of breath, his muttered curse. "I was strapped down so I wouldn't hurt myself when I had a seizure. I was so ill, so weak. The men...the animals - they came into my room and raped me, night after night. There's was nothing I could do about it." I blinked back tears and forced myself to continue. "I got clean, though, and I was released a month later, but I didn't have anyone, no money, or place to live -"

"You have me, Quat! Goddamnit! Why didn't you come to me?" He was angry now. I didn't blame him. I was angry with myself. So full of self-loathing I couldn't even look at myself without feeling sick. 

"I could have. I could have, but I didn't. I was - humiliated. And I didn't want to be a burden. I've been one my whole life -"

"Now, you listen to me. You are _not_ a burden. You have _never_ been a burden. You understand?"

"I hear you, but I'm not sure I agree. Anyway, I - needed to eat. I was so hungry, but no one would hire me. I - became a whore -" I flinched as Duo punched the wall next to my head.

"You fucking _fool!_ How can you be so stupid?"

The tears spilled over, unbidden. "I'm sorry." I would have totally understood if he never wanted to see me again. "I - won't bother you. I'm sorry I came here and dumped this on you." I got up to leave, but he grabbed me and pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my hair. I felt disgusting, deplorable as he wept over me and I couldn't stop apologizing. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, Duo. But I had to make my own way. No one else could do it for me -"

He choked on a sob, squeezing me until my ribs ached. "I wish you had come to me. You stupid fucking idiot. Why did you put yourself through that?"

"I had to survive. Just like all of you did."

"You've already proven yourself a survivor, long before this happened."

I stroked his hair, comforting him as he'd comforted me. "I did get out of it." I smiled as he sniffled and pulled his head back, giving me a wide-eyed stare. I nodded. "I did. I met a real sweet guy. He was a whore like me -"

"Don't call yourself that!"

I shrugged, not bothered by it. "It's what I was. I'm not ashamed of it. I did what I had to do. But...I saved my money and this boy and I, we got an apartment together and I even got myself a real job waiting tables."

He looked relieved. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear that!"

"I came here because...the guy I was with, Colin, was murdered -"

"Oh, Quat. Baby, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay." I had to force the words out around my tears. "I came because I found myself alone again and I couldn't do it anymore. I was so afraid I would start using again and I can't go back there, Duo. I just _can't!_ " 

"Come here." He took me into his arms and I cried against his chest. "You did the right thing for once. I'm glad you're here. Hey," he pulled my head up to look at me. "I'm here for you. I'm always here for you, no matter what. There's nothing you can do that would make me walk away, or send you away. You understand?"

I was overcome by the warmth in my chest and I nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner and I'm sorry for worrying you."

He hugged me again and I wrapped my arms around him, feeling safe and loved for the first time in a long time. "I'm just glad you're okay." He hesitated. "I mean - are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. Now, I am." And I was. I was okay. I would get through this and I would be okay. I smiled at him, glad to see he was apparently doing well. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too, you little fool." He gave me a playful tap upside the back of my head and I laughed, relieved and happy to be here. "I don't want you ever doing that again, you understand? You have a problem, I don't care what it is. You come to me. Got it?"

God, it felt good to have a friend in this cold, cruel world. "Yeah. I promise."

"I had to watch that shit when I was a kid." Duo looked away, eyes distant, troubled. "I won't let anyone I care about put themselves through that."

A thought occurred to me, too disturbing to even consider, and my heart plummeted in my chest. "Oh, Duo! Did you -"

"No. No, not me. Solo. He did it for me, determined that I would never have to be put through that. He'd come home bloody, covered in bruises and cuts, and I would rail at him about not letting me take on some of the burden."

I nodded, my stomach churning sourly. I understood that. I was suddenly so aware of what Colin had been saying. To have to see someone you loved subject themselves to that degredation. 

Duo shook his head, lost in his own memories. "I would patch him up as best I could and he would listen to me curse at him all night. He just smiled at me, his mouth all bloody and split, and he would say, 'I can rest easy, no matter what they do to me, knowing I'm keeping you safe.'" Tears crested over his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He whispered, but not to me. To someone who'd been long dead.

"You stupid bastard. You should have let me - should have -" He broke down then and it was my turn to comfort. I took him into my arms and held him as he cursed through clenched teeth. I felt terrible about drudging up painful memories for him.

"I'm so sorry, Duo. I didn't mean to -"

"No, it's okay." I must not have looked convinced because he said, "Really. It's okay. It just hurts to think of it sometimes." He wiped his face and ran his fingers through his bangs. "I wish you could have known him. He would have adored you."

I smiled. "I wish I could have to. He did the right thing in my book. I'm glad you didn't have to do that."

"I'm glad you're here." He ruffled my hair. "You can stay as long as you need to. I can use an extra pair of hands around here. I'll pay you."

"You don't have to do that. I'll look for a job and I'll work for you for room and board until I can get back on my feet again."

He chuckled. "Good luck with that. If you thought jobs were scarce on Earth, they're even more so here."

"Still. I have to try. Once I do, I'll pay you rent until I can get my own place."

"Oh, don't worry about that. Mi casa es su casa."

"Thanks, Duo. For everything."

"Hey, what are friends for? You want a drink? Or...maybe you can't because -" He trailed off, blushing, and I smiled, knowing what he was worried about.

"I would love one. My addiction was to pain killers. Not alcohol."

"Cool. All I have is cheap, skunky beer, though."

"It sounds Heavenly. I'd love some cheap, skunky beer." Cheap, skunky beer and the company of good friends. It was just what the doctor ordered.


End file.
